


Look at What the Night Dragged In

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Kissing, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester and Jo Harvelle cross paths once during her brief college years. He's in a bad place, she's not walking away, and things go further than they should.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Look at What the Night Dragged In

John's not looking for anything when he finds her. It's complete coincidence—a dingy bar in a college town, half a state over from the Roadhouse. It doesn't occur to him that he might cross paths with someone he knows here, and he'd probably be a lot closer to sober if he knew he'd look up from his drink and see Jo Harvelle watching him.

It's just _wrong_ how fast she's grown up; but then, it's been years since he saw her. And she's beautiful, a fragile-looking wisp of a thing eyeing him with disconcerting familiarity. He knows she's not fragile. More like a trap that could take him out if he's not careful—or maybe he's the trap. Either way, he isn't quite quick enough to look away as heat spreads through his gut.

He's drunk, and he's alone, and he knows himself too well to pretend it's innocent curiosity that's got his attention as she stands and approaches him.

"I know you from somewhere," she says, and her eyes are searching. She's trying to place him, and she's standing a little too close while she does it, right at his elbow. He keeps his hands on the bar, but it's force of will alone that keeps him from reaching out for something he's got no right to.

"I doubt it," he says, deliberately muttering into his glass.

"No," she insists, and now her hand is on his elbow, warm and distracting. "No, I'm sure of it."

"Shouldn't you be somewhere else right now?" he asks, finally turning to look at her. "Tending a bar or something?"

"I knew it," she says, smile sudden and wide. "You're a hunter. You've been to the Roadhouse."

"Long time ago," he says. And then because he's curious, "The hell are you doing this far from home?"

"College," she says, and shifts her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Like she doesn't want to talk about it. Like maybe college isn't going so well. But now that he's looking at her, he can't seem to stop, and he needs her to be _gone_ before he does anything stupid.

"Look," he says, his mouth dry with the effort. "I'm sort of busy right now."

She looks angry and a little bit hurt as she says, "Busy. With what, trying to drink yourself into a stupor? Sorry, I don't have a lot of respect for that particular pastime."

And he means to hold steady. To _not_ move—wait her out because eventually she'll get bored of his surly tone and go away, familiar face or not. He means to be stronger than this, but instead he turns on the barstool and snakes an arm around her waist. One solid pull and she lands astride his lap, her eyes startled wide and breath caught on a gasp.

"You need to walk away," he tells her, breathing her air to do it, and her face is too close.

But his arm holds her tight against him, no space for retreat, and she's breathing hard. Not putting up so much as a hint of resistance. She's waiting for his next move. John tries to find his absent willpower and fails completely. He knows he's lost when his dick decides to make its interest known, gradually hardening between them. Jo can't possibly have missed it, but her face is set in a stubborn calm. Like she's calling his bluff.

"You got a place?" he asks, because he's done trying to be strong. His brain is barely better than slush, his dick aching in his jeans, and he puts a hand on her hip for leverage as he rocks against her. Makes his intentions clear as crystal.

"Dorm," she says, voice warm and breathy. But that won't do. No way dorm security's letting _him_ past, so he takes her back to his motel instead. The door is heavy with inevitability as it clicks shut, the chain and deadbolt sliding easily into place before he pushes the girl back against the solid wood and kisses her.

It's not a gentleman's kiss, because now that they're here he knows exactly what he wants—knows he's taking it, that she's going to give it up for him, and he groans into her mouth. She opens right up to take it, letting him taste her, and he tangles his fingers in her hair and gives a deliberate yank—tilting her head further back to take the kiss deeper, as he slips his other hand between them and undoes the clasp of her jeans.

She whimpers into his mouth when he slides a hand down past the silky fabric of her panties, his fingers unrelenting as they find their objective and make her squirm. It's easy to torment her, to tear such beautiful sounds out of her throat, and he's good at this anyway—knows just what it takes to make her come, and doesn't stop touching her even after.

The tight confines of her jeans make it difficult—but not impossible—for John to shift his hand to a different angle, and he twists his wrist to slide a finger up inside her. Except something stops him short, drawing a whimper from Jo's lips that's more like pain than pleasure, and he freezes with his pulse a rising panic in his ears.

"Didn't tell me you were a virgin," he whispers, rough against her ear, and thumbs her clit just to feel her buck against him.

"You didn't ask," she says, and suddenly he's angry. Angry at her for going home with a strange man, for letting him touch her like this, for offering her first time up to an unworthy monster like him, and his blood sings with the need to teach her better. To make her remember long after he's gone.

John draws both his hands away, needs both of them to tug her jeans—so damn _tight_ on her tiny frame—down her hips. She takes the hint and shimmies right out of them, stepping out of the crumpled pant legs and kicking them aside. He startles when her hand cups him through his own unopened jeans, maddening pressure, and he growls against her throat—against her lips as he claims them in another kiss.

He doesn't bother fighting free of his own clothing; just unbuttons, unzips and pulls himself out into the open air. Jo shudders against him, anticipation or fear and no way to tell the difference as John hitches her up against the door and breaches her. She cries out, wild and hurt, and wraps her legs tightly around him. Her arms lock around his neck as gravity draws her down and he sinks deeper inside her. She's soaking wet, hot and smooth, and so tight John can barely _think_.

He doesn't try to go slow. It's too late for that, and he's too far gone. He rides into her hard and fast, hungry for release that's so close he can taste it. He slips a hand between them, right to the spot where his cock is riding her open, and works her all the way to another orgasm. He knows the second she comes, because her teeth dig into the skin above his pulse to muffle her scream.

John is close behind, losing his rhythm at the end, and he grips her tightly enough that her hips will be wearing his bruises tomorrow. The thought hits him so hard he sees stars with it.

There's blood when he pulls out, an inevitable end result, and she moves gingerly to put her pants back on.

"You gonna tell me your name, or what?" she asks him with false bravado in her eyes.

"No," he answers, but he lets her stay the night. It goes against his better judgment, and it's dangerously comfortable spooning up behind her as she sleeps, his arm a possessive weight around her middle.

In the morning, John gives her a ride back to her dorm, and on his way out of town he promises himself that he'll never come back.


End file.
